


Scattered to the Wind

by TryingToMystrade (TryingToScribble)



Series: #MystradeStoryTime and other Twitter nonsense [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I Can't Not, But it's sad, M/M, MystradeStoryTime, SADNESS AHEAD, again we blame paia ;), justmystradethoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TryingToScribble/pseuds/TryingToMystrade
Summary: Picked up a stray Paia BunnyMycroft's life is threatened and to protect himself, he stages his own death, leaving everyone behind, including his boyfriend.Greg, in a fit of grief, mails a journal full of the love letters he's written to Mycroft but never gave to him.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: #MystradeStoryTime and other Twitter nonsense [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1397485
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	Scattered to the Wind

It’s been weeks. He can’t bring himself to eat, he can’t sleep, and sometimes it feels like he can’t breathe. His world was whole again for a year. He was given only a year before it all came crashing down around his feet. The world itself has been ripped from beneath him and he can’t find his balance.

He does what he has always done when he gets this low. He throws himself into his work despite the pitying glances and whispered comments that follow him through the Yard. It’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling away completely. Or so he tells himself.

He can’t bring himself to acknowledge the other thing even to himself until he is alone with it. Not the ring - he’d removed that agony from his bottom drawer as soon as the funeral was over. He couldn’t do _that_ to himself. No, it’s the book. The book that he’s trusted his innermost feelings and long held secrets to. The journal of thoughts and memories dedicated to the greatest person he’s ever known. Letters never sent to the love of his life. Letters he now could never send to the love of his life.

It was that thought that gripped his heart in a vice every time he brought himself to read over them in the dead of night. Utterly alone.

He had always meant for them to reach their intended eventually. Just not yet. Not until it was right. Now that time would never come. Or it passed him by already and he foolishly missed it.

He lets all of these thoughts tumble from his mouth accidentally when John finally gets him back on a pub night. The dam breaks when he finds the appeal of feeling numb at the bottom of a pint or ten. John may or may not encourage the indulgence this once for fear of him collapsing in solitary grief.

He may not remember much of his ramblings to John the next day but John’s advice certainly sticks.

“Send them anyway.”

He’s sure he’s heard something somewhere about sending letters (or is it burning them?) is therapeutic or something. Probably. Maybe.

So he does. As far as one can send something to someone who is… well.

When he eventually talks himself up to it he gently rips out the first page, the first letter, reluctant to send the whole journal away, and slides the newly tear stained letter between the branches of their favourite tree in their favourite park. Their secret spot.

It’s hidden away from prying eyes which is why they adored it so, and makes it unlikely anyone should find it. Although if anyone should then he can’t bring himself to mind once he sees it in its place. He smiles sadly and walks away.

Something in his heart aches but he thinks that the ache is maybe not a bad thing.

He goes to bed that night thinking about that image and for the first time in a long time he has a full night’s sleep.

The good rest leads to a good appetite or breakfast which leads to a better attitude for the day which leads to a smile from Sally.

The second time he takes a letter to their spot he immediately notices that the previous one is gone. He doesn’t panic. There’s a multitude of reasons for it to have disappeared including simply being blown away and something about that has a ring of appeal. Like maybe if it blows far enough…

Another smile.

He might hang around this time before leaving the next letter tucked between the same branches.

He starts to have a better time of it. The ache in his heart doesn’t stop but it changes and becomes easier to carry.

Leaving the letters leads to good days and so it becomes a habit.

_‘Dearest Love,_

_The pain in my heart feels right when I let these words scatter to the wind and take the journey I can’t yet follow.’_

He doesn’t think anything of the fact that his letters are never there when he returns with a new one.

***

He comes home from a long day of work with the sole intention of passing out for the next 2 days. He gets ready for bed as quickly as his tired body will allow and in his haste he doesn’t notice the envelope that he flicks to the floor and kicks beneath the bed.

***

It is raining the next time he visits their spot. HE holds the last letter in both hands, crumpling it in his desperate grip. He’s left the rest to the wind and can’t yet bring himself to let this one go.

He sits against the trunk of the tree, eyes closed, and lets his head thump back.

It is muddy and there isn’t much coverage so he and the letter are rapidly getting soaked but he doesn’t care. Today is not a good day.

He sits. He thinks. Maybe he cries.

It had been working. He was getting better. He just hadn’t thought about the end. About what would happen when he had nothing left.

Was he supposed to give up his last bit of heartache with his last confession? Was he meant to move on with his life when the last part of his soul took to the breeze? Was he supposed to leave the memories behind as they scattered away?

He can’t do it.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The voice startles a frantic laugh from him. Of course his mind brings the voice to him not when he doesn’t want it, the hallucination of a broken man, and not when he begged his dreams to give him comfort.

“But you can do everything and more.” He finishes their line so that the hallucination won’t have to.

There is silence again and he thinks maybe his brain just gave him the memory he needed for courage to let go. He breathes.

Someone sits on the other side of the tree. He jumps.

“What the- Sorry. Sorry. Talking to myself. Didn’t know you were- That there was anyone-” He stutters as he stumbles to his feet. He only notices when he’s put space between him and the intruder that the man is holding his letter.

He holds out a hand to point accusingly, “Hey, that’s-” But it isn’t his letter. He’s holding his letter in his outstretched hand “mine.” He finishes lamely.

Now he’s staring. He can’t see the person properly from here like they’ve positioned themselves that way purposefully. All he sees are long legs in muddied tailored trousers that are probably worth more than he is and, now he looks properly, a lap full of letters. His letters. Definitely actually his letters. Someone has taken his letters.

He can’t decide whether the new ache is anger or pure misery at the realisation that his musings of a journey in a breeze were just that. The hope is taken from him in a breath.

He doesn’t say anything, though, for the man on the floor is also silent. He is transfixed by the way the long legs are tucked as close to the man’s chest as possible with long arms wrapped around them like he is keeping the letters dry but without conscious thought.

Although he cannot see a face, he thinks the man looks sad. It takes him another moment for him to see the shaking shoulders. Ah. Definitely sad. Did his letters make someone so upset?

He wants to ask if the man is okay. He wants to ask if he can help.

“Those are my letters.” Is what comes out instead.

He can see the man nod although he can’t really see his head. It’s more a bodily gesture that he recognises. It makes him feel itchy with familiarity.

His mind offers an answer but he shakes his head at himself. An answer that isn’t possible. He swallows hard and steps to the side in order to see the man fully and have his mind shut up.

He stops breathing.

The man is looking at him now, eyes red beneath wet lashes. Shock is the only thing keeping him upright. His body is no longer under his control.

Until faint words greet him and he collapses to his knees.

“Actually, I was rather hoping they were mine.”


End file.
